Frostbite
by She-Ninja
Summary: After realizing what her nickname truly means and the rejection of her former race, Arashk slips into a freelance killer lifestyle in order to pay for her bar visits. However, Malatria has an idea of where her friends skills can be put to good use.


_Writing about a DK without writing my main DK._

_Mostly just to frustrate syd. You said DK, so I gave ya DK!_

_-Basically just the adventures of my actual DK toon. Probably going to end up at the tourney sooner or later, or somewhere around Icecrown. Mal will be joining whenever I want comic relief. _

* * *

Listless

The dark liquid swirled between her fingers, rising to the lip of its container before falling calm once more. She inhaled slowly, eyes steady on the drink, concentrating entirely on its smell and no other thought. Just the sharp smell of alcohol, nothing else, not the din of the bar, the stink of dirty people and dirt floors…

"You look like shit."

She didn't wince, didn't look at her, didn't even stutter her rate of breathing. Unnecessary breathing or otherwise.

"When was the last time you left that barstool?" the voice persisted. Her breathing altered only enough to answer steadily,

"Two hours and thirty two minutes ago," in her monotone voice, sounding slightly bored.

"Well that's not so bad." The stool next to her scraped against the stone and dirt floor, the sound of plate settling on the bar jarring against the small pops of her mildly bubbly drink. Her eyes never shifted, though she knew exactly who the woman that now shared the space with her.

Malatria grimaced at the barkeep, waving vaguely at some drink. "I don't care what it is, put it in front of me and take care of that troll over there- he's about to fall out of his chair."

Snorting, the first woman touched her drink to her lips and felt it freeze against her skin. Removing the glass, she licked the chilled orifice, detaching the frozen crystals.

"I see you've mastered that little trick."

She shrugged in response, swirling the liquid lazily.

Sighing, Malatria turned to gaze at the rest of the room, ignoring the few elves that stared aghast at her minion as it chomped steadily on some bones. "Talked to Ariki lately?"

Though it seemed an innocent question from one Death Knight to another, she could sense exactly Malatria was getting at. A quick flick of her fingers was the only answer she gave.

"You probably should," the rotting woman continued, attempting to pull the skin above her claws down as far as it could go. The white bones shone in the firelight, giving them an eerie look. "She might be able to help. Hell, look at Bale. He's good as new, isn't he?"

"He's your brother- he couldn't say no to you dragging him to rehab."

One eyebrow raised, she looked over her friend, "That might be the most you've said to me in the last three weeks."

Eyes flashing, she set aside her drink and looked Malatria in the face. "I am a free person, I can do as I like. And since I am not your sibling, I'd like to think that when I sit about and have a drink I may do so in whatever amount of words as I wish, and you may _not_ tell me when or where I should do my drinking."

Malatria shrugged, an infuriating gesture, and took a sip of her own drink. Silence fell between them. She turned back to swirling her glass and Malatria kicked her minion, preventing him from grabbing the unsuspecting passerby.

"You've been too listless lately."

Snorting again, she said nothing.

"Tarnrik has noticed," she continued, and smirked slightly when the other women paused for a split second in her movements, "You have no energy. It worries us."

She mumbled for a moment.

"You already know it, but I'll tell you again."

Silence.

"It's behind you, Arashk. Let it go."

"I can never let it go. Every time I look in the mirror… it will never go away."

Malatria grabbed at her pet, pulling the poor Tauren woman free from its grasp and giving it a firm shake. "Listen, you can't keep fighting what you are. You can't just lie around here- you need to go out, be active. You know you'll die if you keep this up."

Arashk shrugged.

"They've started a tournament, up in Icecrown. You don't even have to fight anyone. They have jousting and the Sunreavers-"

"No."

"For the love of- You can't seriously expect to stay here forever!"

"I did," Arashk replied, "until you started all of this."

Throwing up her claws, Malatria shook her head, "Do you honestly think that they won't accept you? If you would just tell them then they _will _feel bad for you, as they should, and-"

Deftly tossing a few coins on the counter, Arask stood and walked out of the bar with her gliding gait, onto the street in Orgrimmar. She looked both directions and, on a whim, turned left, Malatria following a ways behind.

"Why can't we just talk about this Arashk?"

Turning to reply, the Death Knight felt someone grab her arm. Her mind promptly went into overdrive, and she slid from their grasp like liquid. Standing with Malatria at her back, she took inventory of her attackers, her breathing still calm though her heart raced.

Three orcs. Not the worst lot she'd had a toss with. She ignored whatever they were accusing her of, glad that she was paranoid enough to constantly wear her gear.

The sharp sound of her blade coming free eased her heart slightly, and she let the tip of the large sword thunk lifelessly to the ground. Her stance was easy, weight slightly forward, ready to dodge their first attack. One pointed at Malatria, probably telling her this wasn't her fight, but they were dumb enough to attack her in an open street- they probably had no idea who either of them even were.

Sure enough, one charged, holding an axe and a shield. She arched away from his wild attack, her body curving with unnatural grace to let him pass by harmlessly.

The next was sneakier, trying to circle around her so her back was away from Mal. Arashk didn't let him get far, swinging her blade out with scary speed to nip his thigh before letting the large sword rest against the earth again.

Within minutes they were limping away. Arashk watched their retreat, her shoulders slumped, weapon dragging on the ground.

"You're a damn puppet cut free of her strings, Arashk," Malatria hissed, and wiped her blade with long strokes. Seated on the ground, she barely looked up to her friend as she added, "You can be as powerful as you like with or without the acceptance of your dying race."

She had the honor of standing beside Ariki as they entered Shattrath. Her attention was elsewhere, of course, than on her comrades. The Val'kyr were watching her attentively, her troops eyeing her for orders, and the citizens wavered in fear at the sight of so many Death Knights.

Arashk straightened her tunic for a thirtieth time that night, twitching the cloth just so in her rooms she shared with some troll. Ignoring the sounds of her room partner eating viciously, she continued by primping her hair and studying her reflection.

"Doesn't matter,"

"Excuse me?" Arashk asked, turning to the scar faced troll, "Were you talking to me?"

"Yeah."

They waited in silence a moment as the troll took a drink.

"Said it doesn't matter."

"And what, exactly, doesn't matter?" she prompted with all primness.

The troll snorted and grinned. "Don't matter how your shirt looks, how you twitch your hair. Don't matter how well you bow and how well you talk," her grubby finger jutted towards Arashk, who resisted the urge to cringe, "They get one look at you, Frostbite, they aint never going to like you."

Frostbite. That was her given title. The more talented knights, those who stood out, received nicknames of a sort. Malatria was Malady, easy enough. Bale was Bane, also simple. Ariki was any various term that might refer to either Death or Insanity. Banshee woman, some whispered in the alleys. Terror of the Night.

There was a Tauren who was Bloodstomp, a gnome who was Fingerless. Two humans were Sting and Bite.

She was Frostbite. She took the name with a grin when she first heard it, assuming it was reference to her control of frost that rivaled Ariki's. But then the fateful night came when her squad was relaxing in a bar and one stupid orc let slip it wasn't about her abilities.

"Does it hurt, Frostbite?"

Her grin was toothy and malicious as always, "Does what, Rottusk?"

"You're skin."

She'd never really paid any mind before. She'd seen a few other blood elves turned Death Knight. They were uncommon, but it was uncommon for any of the weaker races to survive it. The change. The trials.

Her gaze, like everyone else's, fell to her exposed arms, ashy dark blue in the low light. The tips of her ears, her fingertips, her elbows and knees, her feet- all were stained a darker blue, a black of sorts. She didn't realize it, but she had stood out.

Frostbite.

Named for her frostbitten skin.

Named for her unsightliness.

Branded, even after she had escaped him, by Arthas. Always to be feared, to stand apart.

But, in front of her troll roommate, she raised her chin slightly in defiance. "Arashk is not defined by her looks, but by her deeds."

Hours later, she was presented to the Scryers by her Draenei escort. Smiling calmly, she bowed and introduced herself with rank and title. "Arashk Icecraest of Silvermoon. Last of her clan."

The situation didn't have a snowballs chance in hell to work out even moderately well.

At first they accused her of being part Night Elf, and swore they would not take such trickeries. After she had convinced her once brothers in race that she was fully Blood Elf, they were outraged.

"Does this Ariki mean to threaten us?" one cried, sneering at her openly.

Another leaned away, hissing, "Is this what will become of us if we refuse her proposal? Become cursed to an ugly existence as a wretched?"

"I am no wretched!" Arashk finally snapped, calling their attention more fully upon her. "I am a Blood Elf through to the core. I fought beside my brothers and sisters as a mage, holding against the Scourge! How dare you insinuate I am anything but loyal to the denizens of Silvermoon!"

It went, as may be expected, downhill from there.

By the time Ariki was able to come pry her away, she had been stripped of her citizenship in Shattrath as a Blood Elf, and her family was to be accounted as, simply, ended.

"What did you do, Arashk?" the Banshee hissed, leading her outside.

"My Lady," she managed, clenching her hands, "I find that I have been stripped of all honor, and regret to inform you that you must find another to represent The Ebon Blade to the Scryers."

Five months later Malatria was telling her that she had been wronged, and that the Argent Crusade was interested in her. At that point she had run out of funds and was free lancing for her bar visits.

She was a puppet cut from her strings.


End file.
